


Nostalgia

by campitor



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:52:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campitor/pseuds/campitor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tristan has a surprise for Galahad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nostalgia

_“Galahad.”_

The name was but a hushed whisper in the soft silence of the waking day. Darkness still swathed the room like a blanket of snow, and Tristan was loathe to wake the boy, who slept sweetly still in the gentle black, his nude form tangled in the sheets, sprawled out gracefully and stretched like Christ on the cross. His skin was white as milk in the darkness, smooth. As he watched the rise and fall of the boy’s pale chest, Tristan found that he could not resist the urge to reach out and touch his sleeping form; his hand stretched out to brush across the boy’s shoulder and again he whispered his name more reverently than if he were invoking any god. 

The boy stirred then, twisting in a sleepy way. He turned his head to face the source of the noise, eyes and lips fluttering open. “Tristan,” he murmured, “Why are you up so early? There is not even any light yet.” Galahad yawned and propped his head up this his arm. “Is there an emergency? Do I need my armor?”

“No, beautiful boy, we are safe.”

“Then come back to bed.” Galahad extended his hand and beckoned for his lover to join him in the sheets. Crooking his fingers, he cast his sleepy, hooded gaze on the scout, a plaintive sigh of pleading and want trickling from his lips. 

It was tempting, and if Tristan had not been waiting for this morning for weeks, he would have crawled back into bed with his companion, let the sun rise on their joined bodies. But today was too important; he had been slipping from bed every morning before the sun rose to wander into the breast of the woods, following the darting movements of his bird as she danced to his whistle, and today she had led him to what he had been searching for. 

“I have something to show you—you’ll enjoy it, I promise. Wake, Galahad, join me on this adventure, and later, after sparring, we can go and find some solitude.” 

Galahad pouted beautifully but complied, stretching with a groan and swinging himself over the edge of the bed. Tristan grasped his hand and pulled the younger man up against his chest, pressing his nose into his curls and then capturing his lips in a kiss. “Dress quickly,” he whispered as he pulled away, lips moving to brush against Galahad’s ear, “Or the others will wake and find us gone.” 

He left the young knight to dress and went in search of a light breakfast. When Galahad found him, he was leaning against the gate that separated them from the tangled and misty wood, chewing thoughtfully on an apple. The soldiers let them through without a word—Arthur’s knights could come and go as they pleased—but their curious gazes followed the pair as they walked out together.

They vanished into the forest, seduced by her hazy fog, her promises of glory. For a while they walked in silence, casting each other roguish glances when Tristan wiggled his fingers against the fabric of Galahad’s skirt, listening to the waking morning, the songs of birds. They could walk for hours like this, not speaking, barely even looking at each other; Tristan had taught Galahad the value of silence. Before the boy had filled each moment with chatter, gesturing wildly with his hands and scaring away the game. The others would snap at him as he blathered and Galahad would shrink into himself; Tristan knew that they did not realize that the youngest knight’s energy was not born from youth, but from fear. Perhaps Galahad feared the inevitable regret of unspoken words when faced with death and longed to sing his praises and gossip before his mouth was silenced forever. He was young, a child—he could not be expected to carry himself like a warrior just yet. 

With those thoughts in mind, the scout found that he didn’t mind his chattiness now—it was endearing, in a way, a trait that was unique to Galahad and out of place in their band of warriors. But that did not mean that he didn’t savor the boy’s silence, for that was something else, something pure. The boy flourished in the stillness; his expressive face would scrunch and stretch as he looked about the forest, and Tristan savored ever twist of his lips, every line in his brow. Tristan relished these silent forest walks and held them more tightly to his breast than any pilfered treasure. 

They were settled in their silence like stones in a river, and it was not until they had been walking for a good while that Galahad finally asked, “Where are we going, Tristan?” 

“It’s just a little bit further.”

“Yes, but to where?” Galahad frowned in annoyance at the response.

“Somewhere. Be patient. If you keep prying, you won’t get your surprise.” 

Galahad’s brow furrowed in a mixture of irritation and confusion and the scout couldn’t help but laugh. “We’re almost there, Galahad. You didn’t wake up for naught.” Then Tristan stopped walking and snared Galahad’s hand in his own, pulling him back when he nearly wandered away. With a wink to the boy, Tristan turned his gaze to the sky and whistled once, drawing the note out until it dribbled to silence. 

Seconds ticked by and suddenly Tristan’s bird dropped through the trees, flaring out her wings and landing neatly on a branch above the pair. The scout regarded the animal fondly for a minute before whistling again, a shorter burst of noise, a dismissal, a thanks. Galahad watched as she rose above the canopy in a spiral, and was about to turn to Tristan to ask what the meaning of calling her was when the scout darted forward, dropping the boy’s hand and following his bird’s shadow above the trees. “Come, Galahad!” he shouted back as he ran, a grin on his face, his braids streaming wildly behind him, “We can’t lose her!”

Galahad, confused as he was, raced after him, ducking under branches and skidding down hills with far less finesse than his wild companion. Tristan looked back occasionally, laughing as he watched Galahad give chase. It spurred the youngest knight to run faster, his confusion shattering into pure joy as he thundered after his lover, trying desperately to catch up enough to snare his fingers in Tristan’s shirt. The scout’s speed would falter occasionally, and he would fall teasingly into Galahad’s reach, but then he’d look back over his shoulders, shoot the boy a cheeky look, and speed up, his long legs carrying him much faster than Galahad could ever hope to catch. Every few steps his eyes would lift to the heavens and occasionally he would veer wildly, following the wheeling shadow of his hawk. Galahad would skitter against the slippery, dewy grass and adjust his course with an affectionate curse. He did not know where they were going, where the bird was leading them, but there was a primal joy in this strange hunt, and Galahad knew he would be satisfied when he could wrap his fingers in Tristan’s tunic, catch him like a hare and drag him to the ground in a flurry of kisses. 

Just when he thought his lungs would burst, Galahad saw Tristan standing beneath a tree, staring up at it with his hands on his hips. He trotted over to the scout’s side and bent over double in an effort to catch his breath. Tristan regarded his companion very fondly and teased, “Has peace made you weak, Galahad? Perhaps we need another mission to get you back in shape. Ah, but enough teasing—I’ve made you wait long enough. Look.” He pointed to one of the dips where two branches parted. 

Galahad lifted his sweaty curls. Wedged between the boughs was a cluster of sticks, and perched on the edge was Tristan’s hawk. Her dark eyes scanned her surroundings and occasionally she dipped her head down to tend to something in the bundle of twigs. He straightened up and looked at Tristan. The man had a dreamy expression on his face; his eyes were creased softly, and the corner of his lips were twitching into a broad grin. It was comical seeing how looked at his bird; Galahad thought about making a comment about illicit avian-human relationships, a jab about the fatherhood of the nest the hawk was presumably tending to, but he was loathe to wipe that glowing happiness off of his lover’s face. The only time Tristan had ever looked so purely, sweetly joyful was when Galahad has kissed him for the first time.

“Is that her nest?”

“Yes. There are three chicks up there.” 

“Three!” Galahad’s voice was bright, if only to humor his lover.

Tristan turned to him then, his crooked teeth bared in a grin that Galahad decided looked positively goofy on the quiet and stoic man. “Would you like to see them? She’ll let us near the nest. She won’t attack you again, I promise.”

“Of course, Tristan. Of course I’d like to see them.” 

Tristan’s grin split impossibly wider and, swift as a squirrel, he scurried over to the tree and began to scale it. Galahad watched him climb a little apprehensively, memorizing the path his feet took, where the best foot and hand holds were. The nest was fortunately not up high, squished between two of the sturdier looking branches. With a huff, the knight walked to the base, jumping up and grabbing hold of one of the lower branches, using it to hoist himself up to Tristan’s level.

As they climbed, Tristan said, “I wish I had gone up after you. It would’ve been quite the view with that little skirt of yours.”

“Tristan!” He reached up to try and swat at the scout’s leg, only to have it pulled out of reach. Tristan laughed, turning back to cast Galahad a roguish glance as he climbed the last few levels to the nest. He perched on a branch like a bird, one arm wrapping around the thick trunk of the tree, the other unfurling to give his companion a lift. Galahad grabbed his hand with a huff, trying to summon his best pout. 

“Look, pup,” said Tristan as he helped Galahad adjust on the branch, wrapping a protective arm around him. They were a little above the nest; Tristan’s bird watched them carefully, wary of even her master as they regarded the babies. Three fluffy chicks squirmed in the nest; feebly, they would try to lift their heads and wings, flapping the little appendages vigorously before tipping over again, often onto one another. The baby birds pecked and poked at each other, making soft noises, gaping their small beaks in indignation as they roughed each other. 

A soft gasp slipped from Galahad’s lips and his hand jumped up to clasp Tristan’s. “Oh, look at them. They’re so big already! And they’re so…well, they’re so ugly. It’s endearing, though.”

“It will be awhile until they look like their mother. They are a little ugly, aren’t they?”

“Their bodies seem too big for them. And those feathers! They look so soft.” 

“They look like Bors when he hasn’t shaved his head in a while with the way their down sticks up.” 

They shared a laugh at that and then fell into a comfortable silence, Galahad’s fingers rubbing along Tristan’s arm in happy little circles. The chick’s mother would dip her head down to separate the squirming babies, and each time they would stretch their necks up and keen for food, though Galahad was sure they were glutted. Finally, the younger knight murmured, “It makes me a little homesick, you know. It makes me think of the festival every spring, when the people who came of age would get their birds. I remember when my sister got hers—she was so proud!” Galahad sighed and rest his chin on Tristan’s forearm. “I’m sorry—it’s a nice surprise. It makes me feel strange. Happy and sad.”

“Nostalgia is a double-edged blade.”

“Those birds were so important to us. I never got mine—they took me away before I was of age. My father regretted it. He wished I could take a piece of the homeland back with me. I had my horse, but the birds…the birds are different. A good horse you can find anywhere, but a hawk who has flown through Sarmatian air is special indeed.”

“I know, pup. Which is why I was thinking that perhaps you’d like to take one of the chicks for yourself.”

Galahad nearly toppled out of the tree as he whirled around to face Tristan. His excitement bubbled beneath his skin; the scout couldn’t help but mirror the broad grin that had split the boy’s face. “Really!”

“Yes. Of course.”

Galahad turned back to gaze adoringly at the little chicks, clinging to Tristan’s forearm as if it were the only tether holding him back from heaven. “My own bird,” he breathed. “Oh, Tristan, you don’t know how much this means to me. If I were a maid, I would be weeping.”

Tristan realized then that sometimes he forgot how young Galahad was. The boy still clutched at memories from their homeland; he could not let his childhood, happy, surrounded by family and people who spoke his language, go with the English wind, as the others had. It was Galahad who still held the cry of the eagle and the warm desert breeze in his heart, and it was Galahad who would be the last to pull the knife of homesickness from his chest, treat the wound with herbs that would dull the pain but leave a scar as deep as the Thames. 

His happiness made Tristan ache, but he could not decide if it was from joy or sorrow. He knew that he would give Galahad all the hawks he could snare from the sky if it would make him happy; he would catch the eastern wind and bottle it for him if only to hear him sing the songs of their people. He may have taught Galahad silence, but the boy had taught him to remember. Though it stung, he was grateful for it. Some pain was worth it. Some pain was sweeter than honey, and Tristan wanted to lick it from Galahad’s fingers, and feed his own homesickness, crushed to a ball in his belly, with Galahad’s earnest nostalgia. 

“I am glad it pleases you. Beautiful boy—do you know why the others snap at you when you talk of home? You are so hopeful we will return, and they envy it. Do not let them dim your brightness. Blind them if you must. We are all just grumpy old dogs, tired of battle and English rain. But you—you are something else entirely. A hawk.”

Humming happily, Galahad craned his neck to brush his lips against Tristan’s neck. They watched the birds in silence for a long while before the boy said, very quietly, “We will go home, Tristan.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll fly if we have to.” 

Something heavy and warm settled in Tristan’s chest. He swallowed and turned his eyes skyward, where the silhouettes of sparrows streaked the bleeding morning light.

“Yes,” he said, “We’ll fly.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Tristhad Week 2015 and posted originally on my tumblr, pigwingstoheaven.


End file.
